enkoko is not my mukwano gwange

I killed a chicken in Africa. If you've had any Africa-related conversation with me, you most likely know this (in fact, you may have heard it numerous times, in which case this post will be completely irritating because Anna's talking about the chicken, again).

Let me first say that to those of you who let me retell (and retell, and retell) my Africa stories, and smile and nod patiently, enduring them yet again, that means the world to me. So, next time I'm talking Africa yet again, please know how much I appreciate your kindness.

My teammate Molly was the first of our team to kill a chicken. I forget who suggested it or how the idea even came about, but somehow it did. How do I describe Molly to you? Molly is possibly one of the sweetest girls you could ever meet. And I'm not just saying that, she really is adorable. She is kind, funny, sweet, loving, and caring.  She brought a light and a life to our team that I cannot being to describe. To see this sweet, sweet girl kill a chicken was shocking.

Molly was given this chicken, told to grab it by the neck, and swing it. Yeah, no joke. So Molly took the chicken and swung it. And dropped it. She picked it back up, and swung it again. And it got caught in the clothes line. The scenario was heartbreakingly sad, and -in a sick sort of way- ridiculously funny (because this was one of the last things I'd imagine Molly doing). Ten minutes later, we had ourselves a proud Molly and a dead chicken.

photo taken by Josie

Colleen also killed a chicken in Africa, several nights after Molly did it. Same style as Molly, swinging it by the neck. So, when it was my turn to kill the chicken we would eat for dinner, I anticipated doing it the same way. We rode home in the back of the blue pickup truck that afternoon along with our enkoko (that's Lugandan for chicken).

Now, there's a few things you should know about the chickens in Africa. Well really, just this one thing: they start crowing at 4 o'clock. every. single. morning. These chickens that were interrupting my (already very interrupted) sleep would crow outside our window (literally right outside our window), along with the baby wailing and other Africa sounds. After so many nights of chicken crowing, I was frustrated and tired. Hence why I decided to volunteer to kill a chicken.

It's mid-afternoon in Bugiri, we're home from ministry for the day. And Iddi walks up to me with this chicken. As he's showing me how to hold it, I'm suddenly not so sure about this whole chicken killing thing. I consider backing out. But then I think of the countless nights I listened to their crowing and any fear or guilt momentarily vanishes.

photo taken by Sara

When Iddi says to follow him out to the back door, I'm taken by surprised. Here I had mentally prepared myself to swing this chicken around right in the courtyard like my two other teammates, and now Iddi's changing the plan around? I note the knife (the rather dull knife, I might add) in his hand. Oh crap. 

Iddi shows me how to stand on the chicken. I wince as I stand on its legs and wings. This is so not what I had in mind. The chicken must know its life is nearing an end, and that I'm the one who's going to do it. Iddi grabs the head of the chicken, showing me where to put the blade of the knife. I really volunteered, asked even, to do this!? I'm in Uganda and I'm asking an African how to go about killing a chicken. I laugh at how ridiculous this seems. I suddenly realize that I could get used to this, that this world could become my normal. Which, in a way, also seems incredibly ridiculous.

photo taken by Sara

I put the blade of the knife to the neck, and push. But nothing happens, there's barely a scratch. The knife's a lot duller than I thought. "You need to do it harder, Anna." The blade back in place, I close my eyes, as if somehow that would help. It's a sawing motion, a back and forth, until it's over. Red splattered on my wrist, the decapitated head of the chicken laying inches from my feet, the sickening smell of warm blood. I breathe a sigh of relief.

photo taken by Molly

I clean off the knife, and my hands, with the water being poured from the little red cup. And then, we pluck the feathers from the chicken. I silently apologize to the poor, dead chicken I'm now pulling feathers off of. Iddi smiles, I smile back. In all my guilt, I am proud of the fact that I killed a chicken (mostly because it means I have impressed an African, and my favorite African at that). I forgot to mention that the Africans get a huge kick out of the mzungu girls killing chickens.

photo taken by Molly

We walk back inside the courtyard with the chicken, and it is given to the women who will cook it for supper. I go inside to my bedroom, and sit down. Suddenly the guilt I feel consumes me. I just killed a living, breathing thing. That's the only thought that runs through my mind. I rationalize that the chicken would've died tonight anyway, whether I did it or one of the Africans did. But that only helps some. The guilt wears out almost completely when nearly 12 hours later (at 4 a.m.) a chicken crows. I wake up, roll over, and that chicken that I killed 12 hours before? Yeah, I'm not so sorry anymore.

photo taken by Molly